Black Heart: Or The Living Corpse
by AResidentGhost
Summary: Crossover. POTO/book-comic/movie. The BPRD are called to France-Paris--only to find a strange and horribly ugly corpse of a man just waking up after over a century of deathlike sleep. Who is he and what danger does he pose to the world and the BPRD?
1. Chapter 1

Palais Garnier Opéra Paris, 1888

He was ready to die. He gripped his opera tightly to his chest as he lay within the silken confines of his coffin. He felt tired, so he decided to give in to sleep. He felt himself slipping away as his heart slowed ever further and his breathing became labored. _Oh well, _he thinks inside his head, _at least my death will be peaceful…_ Quietly, as if to not dare even break the stillness of his secret home, the figure's last breath fled from his lips.

Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense headquarters, October 31, 120 years later

The big, red, _and _tailed demon called Hellboy was exceptionally cranky today. Oh sure, today _started_ off innocently enough, but just as soon as breakfast was finished, the bad luck had started and hasn't stopped yet. First, it was the damn Fair Folk becoming upset by some drunken teenagers once again. Of course, _no one else_ could handle it—no, only him! Then there was the strange oddity of all the local _stone_ gargoyles suddenly coming alive in New York City—turns out that a kid was messing with black magic he couldn't handle. 'Course they got him to put them back in place, because that is what he did best—beating up the big, bad beasties. And now this…

"What do you mean something big is going down in Paris, France? And in an Opera house, nonetheless?" Hellboy demands. Liz lights a cigarette with a single finger and takes a drag, letting it out slowly. She puts a hand reassuringly on Hellboy's tensed left fist. He slowly relaxes.

"So what _is_ happening, Manning? Something you need all of us for?" Liz "Sparky" Sherman queries.

"It's a request from the administrators of the National Academy of Music. Seems something paranormal is waking up in the Palais Garnier Opéra de Paris. Given its reputed history, it was brought to our attention and this team specifically. You leave in five minutes."

He is slowly waking up, feeling more refreshed than ever before. He knows it will be a while before he is completely awake, though. So he dreams. He dreams of the raging love he has for his beloved blonde, blue-eyed, and Swedish ingénue. Had she read his announcement? Had she fulfilled her promise? Where was he? Was he dead? Is he but a spirit?

He opens his eyes. He is still in his coffin. He is awake, but very weak still. _How long did I sleep?_ The dusty, ugly man wonders in his head.

"So where's this energy supposed to be, Abe?" Hellboy asks Abe Sapien, the blue-skinned fish-man.

He blinks and concentrates. "It's coming from beneath us. _Deep_ beneath us."

Liz speaks up: "Isn't there supposed to be a lake down there?"

"Hmm?"

"Well, supposedly, at its lowest level," quips Abe. "Hmm… Maybe I'll get to go swimming again."

"The Fifth Cellar! Where the siren resided!" Exclaims Liz.

To which Hellboy goes, "What? I thought we already dealt with that, Abe."

"Erm, yes…"

"I've read the book set within these walls on our flight over. It can't be a coincidence!"

"We need to go to fifth cellar quickly," announces Abe Sapien.

He takes a deep breath of stale air as he can feel immense power lying at his very fingertips. He flexes his stiff fingers and toes, which protest this action mightily.

He can only lie there, in his ebony coffin as his doorbell-come-alarm started to ring out. _Who could be visiting me without worry of the siren?_ The deathly pale figure thought to himself.

"Now what," Hellboy asks gruffly.

"Get in the boat," both Liz and Abe command, as Liz herself gets in the dinghy and Abe enters the dingy, cold water.

Abe speaks again: "The energy is coming from the other side of the lake. Whatever it is, we're most likely going to need you to get at it, I'm afraid."

He knows someone is coming, but whom? He can feel his leg and arm muscles twitch, but still refuse to move. He has so much power, yet at this moment in time he is absolutely powerless and helpless once again, much like a newborn baby.

Odd as it is, there is a set of stairs and a door that is almost invisible. Abe quickly confirms that this is where the energy is emanating from—inside and behind the door.

"I think this is my cue," grunts Hellboy. He motions the others back, balls his stone right hand into a fist, and starts hammering into the reinforced door. Even the iron and wood of the door is no match for the red demon and soon he has the door that was built with the occupant's locks that only he could work open.

Inside everything is dusty—_very_ dusty. It is as if nothing has been touched for centuries. Hellboy takes out the Good Samaritan and gestures the other two agents, along with some of the grunts who had came a little later in an inflatable raft, to spread out and search the mysterious, dark house.

It isn't long before someone finds him. He wanted to lash out and kill the intruder, but alas, he knows and feels that he is too weak to even stand and is ashamed at the thought. But he is getting stronger—he knows it in his blackened heart.

"We got a body here!" A grunt named Levhy calls out. Abe and Liz are the first to arrive, and they see that the grunt looks sick.

"Are you sure it's dead?" Liz queries. The grunt nods. He asks how anything that looks so _dead_ could ever be alive.

Hellboy hears this as he enters the room. He replies, "You'd be surprised."

"You're right, Red. He is alive, but barely. He is the source of the energy. We must bring him back to HQ," quotes Abe. "Can you lift him Hellboy?"

He grunts a "yeah, sure", as he lifts the horridly ugly man up and over his shoulder. He realizes that the guy is extremely and awfully light.

"Jeez, doesn't this guy ever eat?"

· Liz answers, "I don't think so. What would he eat down here?"


	2. Chapter 2

Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, November 2

Underground labs

The figure in black wakes completely for the first time and stretched. He notices for the first time that he is on a regular bed and no longer in his favored coffin… Where is he?

"Oh, look, the creature's awake," jeers Director Tom Manning with a sneer. "Just what this place needs—another freak, another monster…"

The rail-thin man hears this and becomes enraged at Manning's callous comments. He doesn't know where he is exactly, but he doesn't want to be here—wherever that is. With a voice that makes the Director quake, he thunders out a reply in his native French: "You can die!"

As the sound reverberates inside the room, the disfigured figure finds he is able to "see" the energy of his very voice and manipulate it simply by focusing. Amplifying the strength and resonance of his thunderous bellow with his mind, the whole room shudders and the supposedly shatterproof glass cracks and all but shatters. Manning runs away as fast as he can, all the while shouting, "This place is full of freaks! Let me out!"

Elsewhere…

"Have you seen the energy signature on him?" A scientist asks Dr. Kate Corrigan. "It's like nothing I've ever seen before."

"Hmm… It is odd. Our physical exam of the specimen supports the idea of him being human albeit extremely deformed. Although his teeth point to something else entirely… I am going to talk to him—or at least attempt to. He may not be communicative at the moment, but I believe he will eventually talk. It is more likely that he is probably simply frightened and angry."

A woman appears in front of the nearly shattered window of his so-called room. She reminds him of his beloved—save for the fact that she has different hair and eyes, and the fact that he would die for her love again didn't help either. _But still, _he thinks to himself as he feels his passion burn once again inside. As his passion burns, small fires ignite upon his delicate fingertips. His golden eyes widen in amazement. _How is this happening?_ The man wonders aloud, breaking his thoughts away from his heart, and the little fires die away.

"Is it all right if I enter, sir?" The woman enquires. The shadowed man nods. Kate Corrigan motions a guard to open the door and that he can leave again. The man's now strangely visible glowing eyes—strange as they could not be seen at all before—follow her motions carefully. He is still suspicious of her, however, and also of just about anybody else.

"Hello," she says cheerily with a serious face while extending her hand politely. He hesitates to return the all-too-innocent gesture, afraid of more rejection and pain again. "My name is Dr. Kate Corrigan. What's yours?"

He reaches out with his skeletal hand and instead of taking her hand; he strokes and caresses her face. His touch is clammy and very cold compared to most living people. "Christine…" he sighs.

"Huh?" Kate gasps at his touch, causing the skeletal figure to draw back quickly and even further into himself, becoming ever more shadowed. His eyes betray his feelings: they exude a mixture of fear and anger, along with a bit of disgust. He shakes his head vigorously, as if to clear it.

"Aren't you afraid of me? Horrified by my appearance? Disgusted that I even dared to touch your beautiful body and face?" He tentatively wonders in an alluring and heavily French-accented English, and turns away from her, not willing to see her reaction. In fact, it is almost as if he is afraid of it and any human contact or interaction.

"What? Sure you're ugly," she admits. He frowns, unseen by her and his eyes narrow. He is becoming angry with her. Why doesn't she love him? He'd die for her! He did once already! "But it's not like I haven't seen many things much worse off than you are. I've seen demons, fish-men, frog-creatures, and even walking, talking skeletons with absolutely _no_ flesh upon their bones! Why would I then be afraid of you? What is your name?"

"I have none."

"Surely you must be called something or have been called something by someone…"

"I have been called many things: the Living Corpse, Living Dead Boy, freak, monster, magician, assassin, ghost even. And sure, I've been all these things, but I've never been truly called son. I gave myself a name, or was it one that was given to me in my travels? You may call me Erik. Just that, Erik."

"When were you born?"

"What year is it, _mademoiselle_?"

"2008."

"Then it has nearly been some two hundred years earlier as best I can tell, as I was never told my date of birth." His glowing yellow eyes bore into her psyche, making her ever more uncomfortable, but she shrugs off the feeling. "Why am I here? Tell me the truth. Is this just another freak show? Or an insane asylum? God only knows Erik deserves to be in one…"

"You are currently under observation. We found you in Paris, in the underground lake in the Paris Opera, and you seemed to be the source of much paranormal activity. We needed to remove you to safety for the sake of you and the city above before you brought the whole city block down around you."

Erik's eyes dim and become downcast as if out of shame or fear. "Sorry," he whispers in a soft voice. "I do not even know myself anymore."

The doctor asks if she can take a sample of his blood—if he has any even—so that they might discover what was and still is causing the energy spikes, along with the reasons why he is still alive or alive again. He agrees, almost reluctantly. He approaches Dr. Corrigan cloaked in furtive shadows and extends his seemingly brittle arm to have his blood drawn. He is trembling, but whether out of fear or hunger is not known. Sure, it looks as though he has never eaten a meal in his life, but how can one ever be so sure that he hasn't ever eaten? She quickly draws the ancient man's blood and leaves, closing the door, but not locking it. Curious, Erik waits until he can no longer see her or hear her footsteps, and then steps up to the door. Along the way he abandons the safety of the shadows he has gathered around himself, as he no longer feels as threatened anymore by the strangers. _Why,_ he thinks to himself, _that woman was not afraid of me and tried her hardest to not cause Erik pain when she drew my blood! Could they be so bad after all, in the end, then?_ He tests the door to see if it is either locked, as he thinks it is, or if it is indeed unlocked.

The doorknob turns easily, and the door cracks open, much to the former Ghost's surprise. Slowly, he opens the door and steps out. He notices the shadows in the hallway almost instinctually. He still is not sure of how or why he does it, but there are a lot of things he just does not know about anymore—even for all his incredible genius.

Abe notices how the shadows that have gathered in the library's reading room. The corners that were once clear of shadows are now shadowed, with one particular corner shrouded even more than others. _What is going on here_, Abe wonders.


	3. Chapter 3

Something within the gathered in the library shifts. The figure, unseen in the shadows, eyes the scene in front of him. A seemingly mythological chimera made of fish and man catches the shrouded figure. Who—or what—is that creature? He wonders silently. _He is as much of a freak as I am!_ Seemingly of their own accord, the majority of the gathered darkness separates from the corner and seems to glide silently towards the glass aquarium.

Abe observes this and takes it all in stride. He grins a "fishy" sort of smile, as he already knows it is the newest resident of the Bureau, the living skeleton they had found in Paris on Halloween night. _He seems to be doing much better than before, _the fish-man observes. Inside the shadows, the figure reaches out and touches the glass.

"I know you're there, Erik," Abraham Sapien admits. Shocked, Erik dispels the gathered shadows with a simple, single thought. Abe can see clearly the horrid face in front of him that is twisted even further in shock. He cannot see the figure's eyes, and wonders why that is.

"How—how did you know of me, or even Erik's name," the figure questions. He is shirtless, and skinny as hell. His ribs and hips protrude, and his skin is sunken, taught over his bones, and an ugly, bilious yellow. He looks as if he has never eaten a morsel in his life. However, this is not true. He has eaten—but he has never gained much weight, if any in fat or any normal area of bodily gain. And why doesn't he eat very often? It should be fairly obvious, as he lacks a regular nose (it is but a gaping cavity on his face), that he cannot smell the food, and seeing as smell compromises a good portion of taste, food would be quite bland. For poor Erik, food was not a pleasure, but instead, a simple and necessary chore that was done simply to survive.

"Who are you? How can you know Erik? Why is Erik here?" He repeats, as his eyes flash in what could be deemed anger or even madness. He already knows he is mad, and has known since he lost his beloved Christine. When he lost her truly by letting her go, his world and mind shattered. He should have known, he would remind himself as he was dying, that no angel could ever love an aging, monstrous demon.

Abe ponders a moment on how exactly how to explain the fact that it is written clearly in his mind. He is a bit of a telepath and that he knows that the minds of others are _supposed_ to be off limits, but he could not help himself.

"I read your mind, Erik. It was easy, but I must admit I am ashamed of my actions. I would not have done so if you had not raised my curiosity so. Your mind is a wonderful thing, Erik. It is absolutely brilliant," intones Abe as he swims up to the glass. Erik is flabbergasted.

"You read Erik's mind? I am annoyed, but awed. Erik's not the only freak here, is he?"

"No."

Just then a noise, as of hooves hitting stone reaches the former Ghost's sensitive ears, frightening him. Immediately the shadows return as he retreats once again to a corner, preparing to move away from the room through the by some odd and unknown instinct.

"Aw, crap," grinds out a gravelly voice that shocks the shadowed man into absolute stillness. "What's with all the damn shadows all of a sudden?"

A big, red demon with yellow eyes, a tail with a mind of its own, filed down horns, and a massive under bite, steps into the shadowed library. He is massive, standing at least seven feet tall, and well muscled. The shadowed figure's eyes widen as he thinks, _ "Well there is someone just about as ugly as I am! Or perhaps not, seeing as he has muscles _and_ a nose…"_ As his eyes widen, two little yellow stars appear in the corner where the former Opera Ghost is frozen in shock. Scared by the appearance of the large red demon, the creature steps back through the shadows and once again disappears, but this time completely physically also. He is simply not in the room anymore.

"What the hell was that?" The big red "monkey" questions Abe Sapien. He just stares at the spot where the yellow eyes had been as the shadows dissipate from the recently vacated corner, while he scratches his head.

"_That_, Hellboy," he responds coolly, "_That_ was the thing we brought back from Paris. He appears to be human, or at least mostly human. Although I haven't a clue as to why he is still alive even. He _should_ be long dead by now, as most tales say. But his mind is extraordinary, like nothing I've yet encountered. A veritable genius, yet at the same time, it is warped and twisted, almost completely insane. And yet, he seems to be a complete gentleman, if nothing else. And I have never seen anyone that was ever able to do just what he has done, which is, to slip away through the shadows."

"So the thing's escaped?" Hellboy grunts. "I suppose I'll have to go and hunt it down—_again_."

"No, Red, you do not need to do that. He is still in this complex, just no in this room. I would advise you to not go after him. The last thing I read of him in his mind screamed of fear, and it seems to be something he has very rarely experienced himself before—he usually caused it in others."

"Just be careful, Hellboy. He's frightened, alone and in an unfamiliar place. I wouldn't do anything too rash before gaining his trust and knowing the full extant of his abilities. I should very much like to know what his origins or parentage are. I do wonder where he slipped off to, though."

Liz Sherman's Suite, BPRD complex

A scream assaults his ears as he steps from between the greater shadows and into the new room. He cringes as the shriek reverberates inside his head. His desiccated lips twist in agony, exposing distinctly inhuman-looking teeth. A cry escapes his very own being. He is all the more frightened by the fact that he has no idea of how he has arrived in this room when he was just a minute ago stepping further backwards into the shadows in that other room that was similar to a library room. He tries to go backwards again and runs into the walls as a bright, powerful light blinds his darkness-adjusted eyes. He desperately grasps for shadows to surround himself with subconsciously, but none come to him. He breaks down and folds in upon himself, covering his mangled features with his skeletal hands and arms, attempting to hide from the dark red haired young woman. She reminds him of his late mother and the abuses she put him through before he left home on an epic adventure that would bring him to seek that which he longed for—the warmth of being loved in return for his love—and the very edge, to the brink of madness—and perhaps over it—and his apparent death.

Her heart is pounding rapidly as she eyes the strange man's sudden appearance in her Bureau-appointed and provided apartment. There was a sudden, darkening of the shadows along the wall and then, two gleaming yellow cat's eyes shown from the darkness suddenly. This frightened her immensely, and in an instinctive reaction, she turned on a gooseneck lamp and shined it towards the eyes. And the light revealed the horrendously ugly figure.


	4. Chapter 4

BPRD Headquarters, Liz Sherman's room

"Who are you?" Liz asks. The strange man peeks out from behind his long hands furtively. The man shivers as she reaches out to touch his skin and body. Liz pulls back suddenly, and almost for no reason—at least not a very apparent reason. Though she has guilt of her own, the guilt she feels that radiates from the unidentified man almost overwhelms her, and she is no psychic—she is a pyrokinetic! Slowly he becomes less apprehensive, and even starts to "open up", so to speak. She cannot see his sunken orbs, though if she could she would see the sorrow and despair written upon them, hidden in the seemingly bottomless pits of darkness.

"Can I touch you," she asks as she reaches out towards his face. He flinches visibly. After all, about the only time anyone used to touch him willingly would be fleeting and only when they bore ill will towards him. So he shuns most human contact, if only because he is unwilling to undergo any more humiliation, degradation, or rejection. But he isn't sure he should shun her, though. He thinks she is beautiful, perhaps even more so than his beloved blonde-haired, blue-eyed Swedish ingénue, Christine, who is most likely dead by now, so why, he asks himself, should he still yearn for her so? But he does still pine for her loveliness, her light. His love still burns for her, but he already let her go—as the saying goes, if you love something, set it free, if it returns, you'll know that it was meant to be. He did set her free, he let her go with his rival, and yet she never returned, and he supposedly "died" of a broken heart. So why was he still here, still breathing?

"Why would a beautiful angel want to touch a grotesque corpse?" The man's heavenly voice quips with a strong flavoring of bitterness.

"Me? An angel? I hardly think so. When I was young, and my powers first fully manifested, I _killed_ both my parents, and many other people in the city block where we lived. I then became an orphan, and a ward of the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense. I highly doubt I am an angel," Liz Sherman snaps.

"Erik is no angel. He has killed many times over, and has yet to feel regret or guilt for any of his misdeeds. Erik may have the voice of an angel, but he is nothing short of being anything other than a demon! His body is that of a corpse! By all accounts Erik should be dead!" The emaciated Erik hisses. His rage boils and his passion burns and seethes. Unknowingly, this ignites his latent pyrokinesis and flames appear on his distorted fingers, burning a strange blackish red.

Surprised by this latest development, Liz, not wanting to back down to this potential threat, she brings her own pyrokinesis to bear. A blue flame dances upon her hands. Her eyes blaze as they narrow and she directs her inner fire at the menacing figure. It makes contact with his skin, mingling with his own futile fire and burns his already scarred flesh even further. He panics, mad with pain and anger and perhaps even fear. He lunges for Elizabeth Sherman, bony fingers curled into claws, poised to gouge her face and possibly even her delicate eyes. Luckily, Liz steps aside just in time, so that his lunge misses its mark. As Erik comes barreling by, she grabs the enraged "living corpse" around the neck in a classic headlock wrestling maneuver.

"Back off, leave, and calm down or I will not let you go," Liz Sherman growls the warning to her prisoner.

Her captive grinds out a response in his native French: "And you would dare to try to kill the infamous Opera Ghost? A figure many have tried to kill all throughout his accursed life and at which all have failed? Many of which themselves paid the ultimate price and fell themselves at his very hands. Even Erik himself tried to die in peace and that was somehow denied to him! What makes you think you'd be any more successful than him or the others?" The abnormally thin figure twists in her grasp and forces her down to the floor.

"Erik gets what Erik wants. And what Erik wants is some information, some peace!" The corpse snaps. His anger cools for a minute, but his tight grip does not loosen upon the base of her neck and shoulders.

The door forcibly slams open and in walks the yellow-eyed, red-skinned demon with a stone right hand named Hellboy. He takes a look at the skeletal, crazed creature with black pits where the eyes and nose should be, and immediately is drawn to the scene before him. The sound of hooves on the floor once again catches the figure's attention more so than the sound of then door slamming open. His head swings toward the sound that had scared him before and sees once again the large red demon. In reaction, he first growls, and then hisses quite like a cat as his yellow eyes flash in anger at the interruption. Hellboy recognizes those eyes immediately.

"Hey, corpse creep, get off of Liz before I throw you off her myself," the red giant roars. The corpse-like creature stills for a moment too long as Hellboy clomps over to where Erik lies atop the prone figure of Liz Sherman. With one single swing of his stone right hand, Erik is sent flying into the wall. This only angers him further as he cries out in French: "I will kill you, demon!"

As he scrambles back to his feet, the "monkey" storms over and knocks him back down to the ground with a cry of: "Stay down!" As Erik falls down again, Hellboy continues to pound on his prone body. Erik feels at least one of his long bones snap and a rib or two breaks before Liz steps in on his behalf.

"Stop it, HB! Enough already! I'm not hurt, see?" She talks Hellboy down from more violence. "Look, Red, he's hurt now—really hurt!"

"Aw, crap," he moans as he looks over the bruised and broken body of the former Opera Ghost. Hellboy had simply reacted with stereotypical male jealousy.

"He was scared and hurt, wasn't he?" Hellboy asks. Liz nods and offers to help move him to the infirmary to heal again.


	5. Chapter 5

Medical Ward

Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense

The skeletal figure lies prone on a bed in the medical ward. He is currently still unconscious, but is also physically restrained, based on his past behavior. Abe is supervising the medical staff working to stabilize the new resident when he was first brought in. Having stabilized the gruesome figure, most of the staff have left, fearing the horrendously ugly creature, leaving Abe alone with the patient. It has taken many trials and x-rays to document his injuries and physiology as a future reference for patching him up to healthy status after injuries sustained in fights, but within this hurried first day they have somehow managed to do it all.

As Abe is studying the black and white films with a specialist, he notices the strange irregularities contained within his exceptionally elongated body, especially with his teeth, skull, and back. The back is especially puzzling to the two of them. He silently withdraws several samples of the sepulchral figure's blood to be sent for analysis and DNA testing to see from whence he came.

Two weeks later…

Slowly, the figure awakens from the depths of unconsciousness to the borders of deep sleep. Abe shoos out the remaining medical team, as he fears that they might frighten him or enrage him. Liz walks into the occupied room and greets the blue-skinned creature.

She asks, "Hey, how's he doing? Get anything new from his mind?"

"He is doing better than before. From what I've felt and seen, I have garnered that he hates to be confined in any way that isn't by his own doing. He'll be furious that he has been bound against his will when he awakes. The poor man had a long and disturbing past. No wonder he's acted as he has… I don't doubt that you or I would not go insane after all that I sense he has been through. It isn't helped for him that he seems to be fractured, in a way. There is some identity or personality that is locked away and very well hidden. This thing is constantly at war with its imposed bindings. Whatever it is, it is very powerful, an integral part of his mind and body, and he seems to have been born with this strange force. I must consider whether just this single conflict is a major contributor to his insanity. Also, I _do_ have to wonder just _who_ or _what_ his father was."

A moan issues from the creature's horrid mouth. His deep-set eyes flicker open and he squints in the bright light. He flexes his bone-thin "mummified" fingers and feet, finding them bound down to the table. His mind starts to panic, thinking he is once more entrapped amongst the Gypsies and a thing to be displayed for others to jeer at, and the voice he had long ago locked away taunts him to release the power—to embrace his _other_ side. Memories of being forced to reveal himself in carnivals and freak shows surface in his mind. Pain is tearing him and his mind apart. Abe sees the current stats for his "patient" go way off the charts and scales. Whereas he was stable but a minute ago, his vitals are anything but stable now.

"Something is tearing him apart on the inside of his and body," Abe announces rather redundantly, considering that it is rather obvious to the remaining medical people.

"Can you help him? He doesn't deserve this—I think," pleads Liz Sherman.

"I'll try," Abe whispers to the pyrokinetic as he delves into the "corpse's" warring mind. Immediately he is almost overwhelmed with very strong emotions and horrid memories. Whatever is causing this turmoil inside him has waited over a hundred years—even to the point of keeping him alive though dead; and has been waiting ever since he had turned eighteen. This thing was immediately shut away back then with the power of his amazing mind, and has forever waited to come out and play. Using all of his psychic abilities, he forces a melding of the warring sides. The power within him is dark yet pure, and burns the edges of Abe's own mind.

With a scream of pure agony, his hidden side is both released for the first and balanced with his fragile humanity. He is whole and complete, perhaps for the first time in his pitiful life. Shadows that are a little more solid than normal run off his shoulders and the table under him in the form of broad black wings. As he screams, all the objects in the room seem to jump and a strong, heavy force seems to press against both Abe and Liz. All of a sudden, the mysterious shadows disappeared, melting away back to their abandoned corners and hiding places. The figure is panting as he fully awakes. He knows he is still quite mad, but feels much more calm and at peace than he has for a very long time.

"Where am I, good people?" He asks in his native tongue. Not getting an answer, he asks again in flawless English. This time they respond to his question, telling him that he is in the medical area in the headquarters of the BPRD. "What is this 'BPRD'? And what am _I_ doing here? Erik should be dead by now!"

The dark brunette with a beautiful, but haunted face reaches out with a towel and wipes off the cold beaded sweat from his face. He sighs in ecstasy, completely awed and overwhelmed by her soft touch of the towel's gentle caress.

She speaks slowly and carefully, so as not to upset the confined figure. "BPRD stands for the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense. We found you underneath the Opera Garnier in Paris. We brought you back here to study you, to be absolutely honest. You are free to leave if you absolutely want to—but you'd monitored by us from time to time; or you can stay here, among other misfits—freaks if you will—and perhaps, in time, friends. You could even end up helping to save the world a time or two from the things that go bump in the night. Which I'm sure you have great knowledge of. What is your choice?"

"Erik has no choice, does he? Go back out into the world that rejected him the first time and would never accept a bastard corpse? Or stay here, where he is somewhat safe from being harassed over and over again? What do you think? Erik thinks it would be better _here_ than with humanity," Erik snaps. "Now untie Erik if ever you are going to!"

Liz and Abe release his bonds on the promise that he would not attack anyone else, unless it is pre-ordained for a mission. He quickly agrees, after all, anything to get out of the bonds and being one who absolutely hates to be chained down or displayed for any reason. He rises shakily and stands even more unsteadily. Miss Sherman quickly rushes over to steady Erik as he takes a few "first" steps. He wants to run or push her away, but cannot find the strength of will to do so, along with himself feeling as if he might collapse if left alone on his own.

"Abe, can you help me get him to his apartment? It should be ready by now," Elizabeth Sherman pleads. The ichthyosapien agrees and supports the Ghost on his other side.

The Ghost's apartments

BPRD headquarters

He is very weak and tired—he just wants to lie down and sleep. One of the human agents, with absolutely no lack of disgust or shame at the so-called "Angel of Death", opens the heavier-than-usual door and allows the trio inside. Erik's eyes widen. It resembles his previous home down to the last musical note of the _Dies Irae_ on the walls of his "sleeping" quarters.

"How did you manage to do it?" He stammers. He is ready to fall asleep on his feet, but even he must admit that they did well in recreating his home on the lake, that was located within the stone foundations of the Opera, within the fifth cellar.


	6. Chapter 6

Erik's Apartments

The exceptionally old former phantom is relaxing on a settee within his "living" room. He is studying this latest piece of technology introduced to him by the lovely redhead and by begging, his "retainer" had relented and given him. Being a genius, musical and otherwise, he is quickly becoming well acquainted with the modern world, and still, he detests the human world. He's seen the looks the regular people, these government agents, have given him since he's been here. He is currently listening to some of the modern music, namely CDs of an industrial/alternative persuasion. He has found he intensely dislikes "pop music" and finds this so-call "rap music" both not music at all and highly detestable—there is no melody, no scales, and it is quite disgusting to his tastes and sensitive ears. Despite the "off-putting" of some of the so-called "music" has done to his mind, he has been inspired by some of what he has listened to. So with strains of a "My Chemical Romance" song floating through his head and thoroughly nagging his mind, he approaches the grand black organ, his fingers eager to etch out another melody from his imagination. With an almost wicked glee, he dives deeply into the intertwining melodies and quickly loses himself to the power of his "living" music.

Seven days later…

Hellboy clomps down the hallway to the newest recruit's quarters, grumbling the whole way about why _he_ had to be the one to rouse this latest "spotlight" fame-seeker. What Hellboy doesn't know is that poor Erik never wants the spotlight on him; he knows he is way too ugly to be anything but hated. He raises his "normal" left hand and bangs upon the thick steel "cell" door.

"Come on out, you lazy corpse!"

Erik hears this gruff voice and immediately recognizes it, and is therefore incredibly annoyed by it. It is that _demon_ who beat him so badly before for being in the same room as the redhead! There is no way, he thinks to himself, that he will answer the loud, red monkey's beckoning call. His lilting voice answers mockingly, "I most certainly will not! Especially not when described as thus! Learn some respect and come back _much_ later."

This snarky response infuriates the powerful "man," and he responds the best way he knows: with his fist. If he did not get the strange man out of his so-called "suite" and to the debriefing room in five minutes or less, it would be his head on a platter, care of a lecture by Manning. That is and has always been something to avoid at all costs here at the Bureau. So Hellboy starts pounding on the thick door once again. There's very little chance that he might break it, but it would serve to disorient and annoy the figure within to the point that they would exit the chambers.

Behind him, in the hallway outside of Erik's door, shadows are gathering without him or anyone else noticing. Stepping into the heart of the shadows silently, the gaunt figure's eyes flash while it coldly calculates its next move. With a casual flick of its wrist, his Punjab lasso lashes out and almost wraps around Hellboy's neck except for the fact that at that he moment he has his fist raised to pound the door again. Although the shadowed figure pulls his hardest, it fails to affect the wanted damage, and snaps. The figure growls in annoyance. The "honorary human" whips around at the sound, catching a glimpse of two blazing stars where there should be nothing.

"There you are, you damn corpse! You're coming with me," shouts Hellboy as he grabs Erik's fragile-seeming arm.

Bureau Briefing Room

The rest of the permanent residents are already gathered, and are currently waiting on Hellboy to return with their newest quest. Of course, agent Manning is becoming frustrated from having to wait longer than he'd like to, but that is almost a given, considering his well-known temperament. The wooden door slams open, and a stick thin figure is casually "tossed" inside, with Hellboy following soon after.

"This little shit almost tried to kill me!" Exclaims Hellboy, as if the whole concept of someone or something trying to kill him is new, which it hardly is. The hideously ugly creature just growls as he scrambles to get back off the floor before launching into a long stream of heavily-accented French curses, followed by other, less identifiable languages.

Manning stands up from his seat, exceptionally annoyed at this disruption of his attempts at absolute order. "Sit down!" Tom Manning roars at the top of his lungs. "Shut up and sit down, both of you!"

Naturally, Erik doesn't like the fact that he is being told what he should and particularly what he should not do—ever! He launches once again into a diatribe in his native French, this time directing his frustrations towards the director. He is all too used to calling the shots himself, and he is not about to change his ways any time soon. And if he does, it will not be because of this loud-mouthed pig.

"It can speak?" Manning asks incredulously.

"Of course I can speak!" Exclaims Erik in accented, but otherwise surprisingly flawless English. His outburst so shocks the director that he is stunned into silence—with his jaw hanging wide open. Erik realizes this and a cunning and malicious smile crawls across his twisted features. He begins to speak again.

"Oh my, oh my. You thought because Erik _looks_ like a corpse that he would be as mute as one? Ha! The dead are never quiet, _monsieur. _They have such tales to tell that you would never believe—if you just would take the time out to _listen_ to their quiet pleas! Erik sounds quite mad, you may think, but you know what? He very much _knows_ he is mad!"

Tom Manning glares at the "living corpse". Getting nowhere with his own glare, Erik backs down and sits uncomfortably in the padded rolling chair. He is very agitated at the moment, wishing to be out of the public eye once again, and wanting to much rather be in his transposed home.

"Alright, _freaks_," Manning announces, gaining a hiss of disgust and anger from Erik. "You have your folders containing the specs for your missions. Liz, Fish Sticks, you'll take Corpse with you to the Apostle Islands in Lake Superior. The details can be read on the way there, along with Kate. Hellboy, Johann, Vlad—you will be heading to Romania to meet up with the Gypsy band that contacted us."

At the mention of the Romany, Erik's eyes narrow dangerously. He has not had a pleasant time or dealings with the vagabonds. A low growl disseminates from his well-developed throat.


	7. Chapter 7

In-flight.

For the newest agent, the flight is something close to a miracle. He has never flown before—at least not consciously that he can remember. He gazes out of a window at the distant ground passing below. _So many roads and lights!_ He thinks to himself. One part of him wants to be outside in order to feel the rush of air against his skin, but a different, more rational part of his mind denies and objects heavily to this idea on the basis that he would surely fall and die for good from this height if he left the mechanical bird.

Abe is wearing his infamous his beard-and-moustache disguise that really doesn't fool much of anyone, and as the former phantom observes his mission partner, he grows frustrated for not having been either allowed or able to regain his almost necessary mask. At this point he would even _kill_ to have his realistic flesh mask back—although he would still look ugly, he would at least look alive! He wonders why the fish-man can have a disguise and he can't have a simple mask… The fish-man is at least bearable to look at, unlike poor Erik! He knows even now, even with the weather at their destination, that he will undoubtedly stick out like a sore thumb, something he has had to deal with his whole life, yet has never become used to. Compared to Abe, with his trusty disguise, he will be the freak of the week! He realizes one thing as he muses frustrated, and that is that at least _he does not look dead…_

"Why are we heading for Wisconsin, Abe?"

"According to the case files, something massive has attacking, ramming, and damaging vessels of all sizes that enter this end of the lake, especially those coming into the sheltered harbors of Superior, Wisconsin, and Duluth, Minnesota, lately."

"So why not have Hellboy come along? With that Right Hand of Doom of his, we could probably use his help subduing this nasty." Queries Liz Sherman.

"Manning's choice. Personally, I think he's pissed at Red."

"Figures."

"Anyways, locals have been claiming to have been seeing things in the harbor also. Something, and I quote, 'indescribable'. But the older members of the local Ojibwa bands nearby believe it is a manitou awakened by the pollution, dropping water levels, and destruction of the natural environment and ecosystem of the Lake Superior region by the ongoing activities of the intrusive white men. Either way, it has been disrupting the tourist and shipping industries…so we have to deal with this as usual," the ichthyosapien sighs.

"As usual," gripes Miss Sherman, snapping the former phantom out of his mystified wonder.

"Huh? So why is Erik needed on the so-called 'mission'?" He inquires, curious about his "role" in this group of misfits and governmental agents.

"Perhaps you might save us," offers the fire-starter. "You never know, it could happen. You might also be able to connect with this 'manitou'. After all, you are the wild card of the team right now."

Three Hours Later

Duluth, Minnesota

North Pier

Erik thinks he is going mad—well, more so than usual—as he can suddenly understand the animals tongues again! He had fought so hard to shut out their "imagined" voices. He puts his hands over his ears and closes his eyes. Abe steps over to the former ghost and places a gloved hand on his shoulder, with his arm wrapping around his back. Erik shudders and shrinks away from the intimate form of touch.

"Are you alright, Erik?" Abe asks the tall, trembling figure.

He looks at Abe imploringly. "Can you not hear them? The voices crying out in warning?" Abe shakes his head no. "They speak of death. They speak as if I am Death come to either help or harm them! But I am not, am I? Tell me! Please!"

"I do not know, Erik. I don't know your origins or parentage, and I won't pretend to. If anyone does, it would be yourself who holds the knowledge," the fish-man replies. "That is between you and your creator, whoever you believe in—if you believe."

It is evening and close to the end of the shipping season. The ice on the lake has yet to close in to harbors and canal, but the notorious "Gales of November" have arrived. Not many citizens or tourists are willing to be out in the inclement weather this evening, and those that are outside or traveling are either very brave or very foolish, for another great gale is blowing in. The wind is whipping up the waves of the lake to great heights in the canal and bay of the "Twin Ports", sending water crashing violently up against and over the harbor piers, which is where the BPRD agents are gathered.

A lone gull wheels in overhead, crying for food to most ears—but not to the ears of the so-called "Living Corpse". What he hears is, "Beware! He is coming! Flee while you can!"

"Sirs, I think I heard something kind of important," whispers the disfigured man. "That bird overhead just said 'He is coming'. Who, I don't rightly know, but it most definitely sounded like a warning."

The winds pick up and blow even harder, as if in response to what the newest BPRD team member just heard. A low, animalistic growl emanates from the incoming waves as a dark shape slithers through the already darkened water.

"Too late, too late!" The screeching gulls cry as first one tentacle and then another break the surface of the roiling lake water. One of the pair of octopus-like appendages strikes out, nabs a fleeing seabird—which squawks in protest—and drags the bird down under the waves to drown the poor thing. The body of the beast appears above the restless waters at last. It is grayish in color and looks to be covered with stiff, bristly hairs and rough, scaly hide. Its eyes, if they can be called that, are wild—whether from fear or madness is not known, although the formerly dead man knows very well that the two emotions run almost parallel to each other. It has a fringe of purplish tentacle "dreadlocks" that form a halo around its brutish, ursine head. Letting out an immense guttural roar, it swings its massive, clawed, club-like paw at the group. All but the inhumanly thin man scramble away, but they are confused as to why Erik has not moved, but ducked. It certainly is not fear that has rooted him to the spot, for he feels very little fear, but something else entirely, something intangible…something alien and inhuman. An inhuman resolve has settled deep into his long bones. Somehow the massive claws missed him easily, almost as though the creature was afraid of harming the former phantom. The rest of the team notices this and become confused at this new development. He should have been eviscerated! It appears as though the beast had drawn back at the last second to avoid contact with Erik. And what is that odd shimmer surrounding his all-too lean frame? If they could see his eyes, they would say that they are dancing with livid, glowing flames.

A haunting, otherworldly melody thrums from the solitary glistening figure, building and becoming ever louder. Finally, he starts to truly sing. If his voice is heavenly just speaking, it was nothing but the squawking of a crow compared to his singing voice. Dark shadows gather around his body, oddly shaped as if they were a parody of an enormous set of ghostly wings. Inside his mouth, as his body awakens, his canines extend a little more and become sharper. He is no vampire, however, but he is the son of a rogue agent of Death, or in other words, a Death god. The beast's frantic eyes and cries calm as the song weaves its spell upon the rampaging, gigantesque beast. Its shrieks dim and it amazingly starts to purr!

A voice, seemingly out of nowhere, speaks right into Liz's ear, although no one else hears what it says. Erik, using his amazing talent for ventriloquism, tells her: "Unleash it now! The flame must consume the beast in order for it to rest in peace."

The fire starter doesn't know who or what told her to unleash her power, but the words themselves are so compelling that they act as a trigger, although she is still wary of letting them loose. She has more control over the flames that are a part of her, but still not as much control as she would like to have. Despite this, she can see no other way of handling this massive beast, so she allows the words to flip the trigger switch, so to speak.

"I would move if I were any of you, especially you, Erik," she warns. A barely imperceptible nod issues from the living skeleton. The shadowy substance branching from him moves as if they are bird wings, and almost impossibly, Erik launches into the air and lands gracefully behind the other agents. This elicits many awed gasps and questions of what he is exactly, but the very old madman doesn't care. He's more focused on the task at hand: singing the Vietnamese lullaby he picked up during his many travels. Designed as a defense against those spirits who were aligned with the dark forces, it somehow soothes this monster.

"What are you waiting for? Kill it!" A disconnected voice is heard separately from the entrancingly beautiful lullaby the Living Corpse was singing. Liz is about to act, when Abe Sapien beats her to the punch. He pulls out his bureau-issued revolver, makes sure it is loaded, and fires off a couple of rounds at the beast. The first two bullets lodge solidly in the beast's skull, while the third lands in somewhere in the creature's neck or chest. All said, Abe is most certainly a better shot than Hellboy, and because of this, large globs of what passes for its blood and chunks of flesh fly from the demon's body.

The creature screeches in pain and madness, before starting to collapse. Unnoticed, Erik stops singing. It is pointless now, as the Manitou is dying and the pain is distracting the spirit beast from being calmed by the song, anyways.

Erik speaks loudly this time—and to all who are present: "Mademoiselle Sherman unleash the inner fire now—_before_ it regenerates."

A blue flame spreads across the fallen monster's writhing corpse, searing the skin and flesh, burning it alive, while her eyes blaze a ferocious yellow-orange. This quite frightens poor Erik, as even being a _master illusionist_, the power to conjure that amount of flame with that very same amount of control without losing said control or using gunpowder (or other flammables) amazes even him! He has never seen or encountered anyone like that in his lifetime, and he has been all across the world, from his native France to the far-flung lands of the Orient and ages-old India and Persia! He backs away, almost frantically, frightened and panicky. He can barely breathe! His vision—usually so trustworthy and reliable—is going dark and he is becoming weak. He collapses, but hardly anyone notices—except the regular, human agents, who, doing their duty, rush to the fallen Opera Ghost's body to protect him and make sure he is still alive and okay. Once done, they heave his body away from the danger and back to the hotel base camp, not daring to interfere with Liz Sherman's demanding concentration and the ichthyosapien's attention to the action.

The creature's screams unnerve those in attendance. Slowly, they die down and even fade away. All that is left of its body is ashes that are quickly dispersed in the mix of wind, wave, and rain. Liz breaks her concentration and breathes a sigh of relief that the fire didn't grow out of control. She is exhausted, but not to the point of fainting.

"Ready to go home, Miss Sherman?" The blue-skinned, hairless fish-man queries, placing his hand and arm across her shoulder as they walk back to the waiting transport which will take them to a nearby hotel until the storm system passes and they can leave.

"Yes, definitely," she responds, "At least, once this weather clears up. It is November, after all. I do _not_ want to risk it. How's the new guy that attacked me earlier doing?"

"I don't know…" He admits, somewhat worried now. "Excuse me, Agent Moore, where's the new guy?"

"Back at base camp, so to speak. He's resting right now. He's pretty out of it. No—I don't know why. He keeps muttering about a singer…named Christine Daáe. Who she is—if she is even around anymore, given his file history—I do not know. Good luck communicating with him right now. Come on, we're getting soaked as it is."


	8. Chapter 8

At base camp.

Superior, WI.

Later that evening.

Outside the wind howls, while it is relatively quiet and peaceful inside the suite of rooms the Bureau has taken over. Abe is worried about the newest team member, because he still has yet to awaken. He cannot figure it out—he should for all intents and purposes be awake by now! He's not necessarily asleep, but also not quite unconscious, either. Yes, he was worried, but at least the former Ghost is still breathing.

A knock sounds at the door in between the two primary rooms for the "special" agents like Liz Sherman, Abraham Sapien, Erik (no known last name), and the well-read Professor Kate Corrigan. It is that very same Kate who is knocking now.

"May I come in?" Professor Corrigan asks. Abe replies in the affirmative, so she enters their shared room. She sees Erik's prone body and is immediately worried. "Is he okay? I'd hate to have him die so soon after his…'resurrection'."

"From what I can tell," the fish-man begins. "He is currently fine, although he seems to be exhausted. I have removed the scarf that they had him covered with to transport him so that he might breathe better. I have a hunch, mainly from glimpses of his past life within his mind, that he will not react very well to being so expose, especially not in public without his willing permission."

"That's good," she remarks as she moves closer to the corpse-like man. He looks peaceful, almost saintly lying there, unconscious, on the bed. "He is not…very handsome…is he? I probably shouldn't say anything; just looking like that, he has probably lived through a horrible life."

"Yes, he has suffered…he has suffered greatly. Most likely, no probably to definitely more so and worse than anyone alive today." Abe invites Kate to down on a chair pulled up alongside the bed that he himself is sitting by. She sits down and takes the Opera Ghost's limp hand. It is icy cold and clammy. "Who were his parents? Can you tell from his memories?"

Abe shrugs.

Inside his head, Erik hears a voice. It is quiet, but could be considered quite sinister. It very much echoes what he knows of his own voice—but this new voice definitely does not belong to him.

"Who are you?" The former phantom queries the voice. He is getting annoyed, and fights to wake up again.

"No, you cannot wake up—not quite yet, anyways," it whispers to his unconscious mind.

""Who are you—I demand to know! I want out of this prison now!"

The voice answers, "Haven't you guessed yet? I was there, _at your very conception_. Care to take a guess? I will be coming to visit you so very soon. You people will all eventually meet me…or some other incarnation of me…in the end…"

"Damn you! Let me wake up now!" Erik rails against the force keeping him asleep. He can feel power radiating through his body, breaking the bindings that are holding him unconscious and asleep.

"Shh… Be careful, I believe he is waking up," warns Abe. "Be prepared for any and all possible reactions. He is…_quite sensitive_...about his personal, physical appearance. He has, after all, been subjected his entire life to treatment based almost solely on his appearance."

The phantom's limp fingers start to twitch, and with his receiving the longed-for sensation of someone _willingly_ and _gently_ touching him, much less _holding_ any part of him, he grasps Kate's hand in return very strongly. The force is such that it almost crushes her hand! In pain, she cries out involuntarily.

Suddenly, Erik's eyes fly open. He is panting and in a cold sweat. It is as if he is feverish, but no one can quite figure out why he has suddenly become so sick, if that is indeed what he is. But to all appearances, he seems to be in the grip of a fever—although he really isn't sick at all. It is the _power_ running though him, cold as ice yet hot as the sun, which is causing his feverish symptoms. Like is calling to like with his body, although no one knows this… no one except Erik himself; and he cannot explain it, for he does not even know the extent or nature of his power. One word rings through his fragile mind: _conception._ Could it be the father he never knew? After all, throughout his tortured childhood, it was stressed that the man _he_ knew as his father, a master mason, _could not possibly_ be his _real_ father, and that only by their strict Catholic morals was he, as an infant, _allowed_ to live at all.

Erik, quickly regaining his strength, sits up in bed and speaks, "He is coming."

"Who is coming?" Kate asks.

"My father," Erik replies quietly, then swears under his breath in his native French a long string of curses toward the current situation.

"But your father must surely be dead by now!" Kate breaks the awkward silence, neither of the other two wanting to speak first after such a statement.

"Yes, I suppose he is," Erik admits, then goes on, saying, "But he was not my true father, and Mother made sure I knew that fact from the time I was little to when I left for good, escaping that hell. And the man I _knew_ as father, well, it's best not to speak ill of the dead. _Especially_ when they can come and find you _as well as speak to you_."

"You can speak to the dead? Are you clairvoyant?" The professor wonders aloud.

"No, not clairvoyant, they just do not shut up—the only time many of them, if they had known me when they were alive, would never have talked to me."

"Then who is this 'father' you speak of," Abe Sapien questions.

"My true father, the being that," here Erik makes a disgusted face, "_fucked_ my mother, _pretending_ to be her husband."

"What did he look like?"

"How should I know?" The former Opera Ghost exclaims. "I was not born yet! _Idiots…_ But you won't have to wait too long… _he's _almost here."

The lights go out and the temperature drops suddenly. No light is visible except the master magician's fiery yellow eyes, blazing in the darkness. Slowly, three interconnected flames, suspended in the air bloom into existence, seemingly separate yet connected all at once. A rustle of ghostly wings is heard and a second pair of blazing eyes open in the room across from the first. That is when they realize that there _is_ someone else inside the hotel room with them, and they have no idea how he or she got inside. After all, for their safety, as well as the previously unconscious Opera Ghost's safety, all the doors and windows to the outside _had_ been locked long before. They are afraid now, wondering what kind of thing would be revealed when the light returns once again, revealing all.

And the light _does_ return, and the frozen tableau is broken: a tall "man" with immense silvery black and white-flecked wings upon his back stands at the end of the bed. He seems to be an angel, but that thought is soon ruled out when the crown of three tongues of fire that are seated upon his head are considered seriously. He is definitely inhuman, but at the same time trying almost too hard to pass off as something perhaps a little more accepted than perhaps its true appearance. The features themselves are almost a living example of contradictions. His face is harsh and angular, much like Erik's bony visage but not quite as extreme; yet, unlike the formerly dead corpse, the newcomer's features can also be said to be soft and gentle. He has a strong, aquiline nose with slightly flared nostrils. His lips look soft and form a perfect cupid's bow in a pout. His eyes are deep and seemingly restless. Their color is almost constantly changing—mostly they seem to be silvery blue. His face, in Erik's opinion, is absolutely perfect. _If this is what my real father looks like, how the hell did I come to look like this?_ The corpse-like figure wonders silently.

And then the being speaks. If one could hear the voice of God, those present have no doubt that _He_ could not have sounded any better than who was in the room with the three.

"Hello, son." With those words, everyone is struck speechless.

"And who are you?" The Trap-Door Lover demands of his purported father. He looks nothing like this creature. He had thought that _perhaps_ his _real_ father would possibly look like his own countenance, for why else would his mother insist that the man she married _wasn't _his father. "Or more likely, what are you? I want to know why I look like I do and why I am no longer peacefully dead!"

"I am sorry for your appearance, child, but there is no doubt that what and who I am is the cause of your current predicament. I am not human, and therefore, neither are you. I am a god, an old and mostly forgotten god. A god of Death and the Afterlife is what I am. I was known as Ka-Ma-Si, Reaper of Souls."

"So _why_ do I _look like_ this?" The god's son demands, gesturing to his rather prone body. He feels as if he is on display once again, and he absolutely dislikes the situation as it stands now. He shifts his body in the bed, ostensibly to gain more comfort. It is the question he has pondered for much of his "waking" life, ever since he was first exposed to the mockery of beauty that is his face and body. So, yes, _why_ does he look like a long dead corpse, they all wonder.

"It is unfortunate, all right. It is not your fault, neither is it your mother's fault; rather, it is my entire fault. This 'avatar'—or body—you see is just one of many aspects of my identity, one avatar among many. I am ancient, beyond ancient actually. I was old when Atlantis and Mu were young. I actually traveled from another part of the universe with the Great Teachers on their flight across the universe. They were gods in their own right, and brought with them the seeds of life, and, eventually, humanity. They were Earth's earliest gods. I was a figure they feared, but worshipped themselves in the hope of staving off their own eventual deaths that fate, often ruled by me as Death, were to come. My appearance then was completely different; it was much closer to your appearance now. That is most likely where you get your appearance. I was solely a god of Death at that time.

"Eventually humanity was born. The earliest people adopted me as their God, for the Great Teachers who had stayed here were by then 'harvested' by my hand, and I took on a second role: that of Protector of Life. As they had given me the role, I could not refuse the identity or I would fade away, and it was this that gave me more of a living, human appearance. Later on, I acquired the angel-like wings. You are a result of my earliest incarnation. I am so sorry for that aspect being passed down to you, my unfortunate son. I had wished my current aspect to pass onto you, my heir and herald. If it had, you would surely have been quite handsome, having your bone structure.

"I am old, as I have said, and yes, you could say I am dying," the god admits. "Funny, a god of Death dying… But I am old, and barely anybody remembers me anymore. I may have to retreat once again to my extradimensional plane of origin. I used almost all of my energy left in this universe to create you, then wake you up from the sweet embrace of Death, and then visit you one last time. A time of great tumult is approaching, and many gods and people will die, but not everyone. You will always be there, for you are stronger than I ever could be, now that you have come into your own. Born of _three_ lineages—divine (from myself), human, and Fallen (this was many, many generations before your birth and was dormant until awakened by my blood), you are more grounded than any other creature alive today. You will survive, and you will lead. I must go soon."

"May Erik hug you?" The son asks quietly, afraid of yet another rebuke. The parents he knew would never allow him to touch them, even when he needed it the most. So, therefore, he is very afraid that the answer will be in the negative.

"Yes, you may," Ka-Ma-Si, old and weary, but full of love for his only son, answers with a tender smile. Erik gets up off the bed and tentatively walks up to his true father. He, in turn, showing poor Erik true, unconditional love for the first time in his miserable life, embraces the Living Corpse both warmly and tightly. Overwhelmed, the former Opera Ghost breaks down in tears. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you son, I am so sorry. If I had a choice, I would have taken you away from it all the moment you were born; but, alas, I was too weak to even come see you. I was gathering enough energy for this last visit. Goodbye."

The lights flicker, and with a quiet chorus of what seems chimes, the old god fades away from this reality, forever this time—he will never be able to return. The realization hits poor Erik like a proverbial stack of bricks. He is never going to probably die, but that, to him is torture enough. What is even worse for him is that after having finally met his sire, who holds all the answers, answers he will never receive because he will never see him again.


End file.
